


The Stories We Tell Ourselves

by tracinginthesand



Series: Notebook Stories [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Actor Louis, Airplane Sex, Feelings are discussed, Harry Is Not To Be Trifled With, Harry has to interview him, Harry is Harry, Louis is in the new Star Wars movies, M/M, Masturbation, Past Relationship(s), The Late Late Show, Truth or Dare, some bad stuff in Louis's backstory, some issues with sex, there are a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-02-15 09:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13028385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tracinginthesand/pseuds/tracinginthesand
Summary: It's been six years since Harry and Louis's night together. They meet again in front of a live studio audience when Harry fills in for James Corden on The Late Late Show.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! Thank you all for your wonderful comments on the first story in this series. I'll try to get more chapters written soon. And more smut! Mmm, smut. <3

It’s been more than six years since Harry watched Louis Tomlinson walk away from him on a London summer night. Since he stared his handlers down for the first time, with a haughty tilt to his chin. He pretended nothing happened, his arm raw from scrubbing most of the marker off. His bunk smelled like Louis for days. He’s caught a hint of spicy cologne mixed with the same laundry detergent a few times since. His head snaps around every time, of its own accord. He holed up with a guy in a Swiss chalet for a weekend once, because of that scent. He lost interest right around the time the smell of fresh laundry wore off. It was just a passing fancy, as so many of his fancies are.

Harry forces himself to lie back, fold his hands over the curve of his stomach and close his eyes. Take deep breaths and let them out. He’s not being kind to himself. He’s a very loyal person. He likes routine and seeing the same faces all the time. He likes having familiar things, building a nest wherever he goes, with scented candles lit in every hotel room. He wears clothes until they fall apart completely just because they’re _his_ , even though he has a closet full of Gucci, and any designer working right now would sacrifice an administrative assistant for his custom. Harry understands his role in the interconnected worlds of music, fashion, appearances, and he understands what he does by refusing to play along. He’s reclusive, by modern standards. He prefers to bear the poncy air of mystery than tease false intimacy. His friends don’t mind.

He doesn’t think about Louis very often any more. Louis was all he _could_ think about after it happened. Distracted and breathless with arousal and constant fear—what if he _did_ sell the story? What if he _did_ break apart Harry’s careful mess of a life and bring it all tumbling down? But he never did. And Harry never texted him, even though he could still recite the number from memory. Every lonely night he almost did, especially in the middle of the disaster that was his PR relationship with Taylor Swift, when he desperately wanted an ear that could be his and his alone. But that wouldn’t have been fair to Louis, and Harry didn’t want to push his luck, and anyway, what if Louis lost his phone or got a new number or any of a dozen things that would make it a bad idea for a pop star to text him in the middle of the night.

It’s hard not to think about Louis sometimes, though. Especially right now, when he’s going to be Harry’s guest on _The Late Late Show_ tonight, because James is sick and took Harry up on his offer to host at last-minute any time he’s in LA.

And he is, between the end of his first solo world tour and flying home for a few weeks off with his family. He wanted a little time to bask in having succeeded, to sleep in, go for runs, take long baths, and not talk to another soul if he doesn’t feel like it. It’s been wonderful, just to catch up with friends and go for walks, do a little holiday shopping. And then James called him to cancel dinner and ask if he was serious about wanting to step in and host. Harry jumped at it. He loves the closeness of the audience and the immediacy of the jokes, the banter, chatting with guests and riffing with the band. The rhythm of it. The music of his life changes tempo so often. Stepping in and out of a steady rhythm feels good.

 _The Last Jedi_ is opening this week, and he was ready to have a lovely time with Daisy Ridley, the scheduled guest for tonight. But there was a mix-up with her travel, and another one of the actors had to fill in. When Harry saw the name, he didn’t process it for a full minute.

 _Louis Tomlinson_.

Harry can’t think straight. He’s dragged back to one of the hottest nights of his life by the memory of suspenders around his wrists. A sly, knowing smile, the most perfect, confusing, _loving_ filth poured into his ears, feeling surrounded, overwhelmed, adored—something he doesn’t think of in connection with one night stands, no matter how good. But he did feel that way once. He was like that once.

Louis _fucking_ Tomlinson. If the universe seeks balance, this is one incredibly pointed attempt at balancing the scales. Harry has successfully avoided him for a few years now, ever since James was filming _Into the Woods_ and mentioned Louis, this young man with a haunting voice and sharp smile, who had so much potential and mostly got bit parts in BBC novel adaptations. Harry hadn’t made the connection until he saw the movie. When Jack appeared onscreen—covered in dirt, all cheekbones and blue eyes—Harry made a very distressed sound that, on some plane of his soul, has never stopped. Because James’s Louis was _Harry’s_ _Louis_.

Furious Googling ensued. Harry hadn’t even known his last name. But when Harry found out that Louis somehow existed in a way that Harry could potentially get his hands on him, and was making it as an actor, he made it a mission to see all those movies. He even read a few of the books, just to see how perfectly Louis managed to bring the smaller characters to life. He’d been a guest star on a couple episodes of _Doctor Who._ He shone in everything he was in, young as he was. He didn’t pretend to be taller. Or straighter.

Louis’s comments in interviews gave Harry life. And strength, after he did his soft coming out in November 2014. When they knew the band was going on hiatus after the last album dropped, when he could see his way clear. He could tell Louis’s career was suffering for it, but not as much as it could be. He thought, personally, that Louis should have gotten to play Spider-Man in the MCU. He thinks Louis should play everything.

But Louis did get a role in the new Star Wars movies, and Harry spent _The Force Awakens_ living for every moment he spent on screen as Rashi D’urak, right hand of General Organa and potential Skywalker scion. The scenes between him and Rey crackled, and the way he openly flirted with both Finn _and_ Poe gave the shippers new life. Louis’s scenes with Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher really stole the show, and made everyone wonder if Kylo Ren wasn’t the only Solo child, after all. He and Adam Driver had a whole thing going with BB-8 on red carpets. The little droid clearly preferred Louis. Louis and Adam were both asked why. Louis said it was because BB-8 didn’t understand the difference between reality and fiction too well, and thus thought Adam was evil. Adam said that BB-8 liked how short Louis was.

Now, in the middle of _The Last Jedi_ promo, Harry should have been more prepared. How, he isn’t sure. But there ought to have been a way to predict that he might be put face to face with the wet dream of his nightmares. Especially if James had anything to do with it.

Harry calls him.

“I swear I did not engineer this. Hand to my heart,” James says. Harry told James the whole story when _Into the Woods_ came out, and James had immediately wanted to set them up.

“I don’t believe you.” Harry is up and pacing. “I’ve played stadium shows. I’ve done arena shows _by myself_. I am a respected and beloved pop star and I am _freaking out_ _right now_.”

“It’ll be fine,” James says. “Do you know how many people in this industry have had one-night stands with each other? Or affairs? He’s not going to leap up and point, yelling ‘ _J’accuse.’_ ”

“No, but—I was so scared then.” Harry sits down on the edge of his bed, petting the soft comforter. “Of who I was, of what I wanted. And he was amazing. Truly, world-endingly kind and giving and just…I don’t know what he thinks of me. I didn’t behave all that well. Sort of chucked him into the street, honestly.”

“For what it’s worth, he seemed completely comfortable about working with you tonight.”

“You talked to him about me?” Harry’s voice doesn’t crack only because it’s so strangled.

“I called when I learned he’d be covering for Daisy, telling him you’d be covering for me. He was very gracious, said he’d love to meet you.”

“Wait. You knew he’d be doing the interview instead of her? _Before_ you told me? James, you know that thing I have always begged you for? Not to be put in the same room as Louis Tomlinson. That’s the thing.”

“I didn’t engineer it!”

“It sounds like engineering to me.”

“It all happened at once. You agreed to cover for me, then Daisy’s people called, then I had to call Louis, and then I told you.”

“No. You let me find out. That’s a different thing entirely!” Harry flops back on his bed. “I’m being ridiculous,” he says. “I’m being ridiculous and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You have a thing for him the size of the Atlantic Ocean.”

“I do not.”

“Oh, my god. You’re two deep breaths away from a meltdown just from the idea of being in the same room.”

“That’s embarrassment. Because I acted like a dick.”

“You were young and in the closet. I’m sure he understands. 

Louis _had_ understood. Had been… lovely about it, really. Tried to take care of him. Offered it freely. Accepted what Harry had to give, hadn’t asked for anything more. Harry wondered what happened to him for years after that night. How he was. If he regretted that night, or held it as dearly as Harry did. None of the interviews Harry had been able to find referenced their night together in any way. Even after so long, that made him feel warm. Louis didn’t trade on him for gossip. Would never 

He did say, repeatedly, that the closet was a shame and a waste. That it was a distraction from the real work of making art, that the world was missing people, missing beautiful, important art because of the all-encompassing demands placed on them to hide 

Harry felt that down to his marrow. After the Taylor Swift debacle, he decided to just… stop hiding. Maintain his privacy, yes. Not do anything that could get him sued, in that rat’s nest of contracts he signed when he was too young to know better. But not do one more thing than that. They could think what they wanted. And they did.

But what he had felt with Louis—the freedom, the acceptance, the delicious crackle of knowing neither one of them really knew what they were doing—it was precious and rare, and he wished he’d used the phone number that he could still recite from memory.

“Not sure I can look at him without blushing,” he says.

“Pretty sure he’s used to that reaction.” James’s voice is gentler than it was a minute ago. “You’re going to be fine. He didn’t even pause, H. He just took it in stride. He’s a professional. It was a long time ago. You can do this.”

Harry whines and rolls over. “If I die before airtime, will I still have to interview him?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Fuck.”

Five minutes later, he’s back on the phone with James. “What do I wear? I was going to go with the purple Gucci, but I don’t want him to think I’m trying. I should wear something more casual. The plaid. Gucci, but not _Gucci_ , you know what I mean? And the trousers are tight. He said something about my jeans being baggy back then, and they were. But shit, if I wear tight trousers he’ll think I’m trying to call back, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

“You know, he’s probably seen pictures of you in tight pants since then.”

“You think so?”

“Harry. My flu medication is going to kick in any minute. You’re going to be fine.”

“Okay. Sleep well.”

Harry hangs up and stares at his reflection in the mirror. “Pull yourself together. So what if you’re about to interview someone you once took back to your tour bus? So what. It’s just one of the hottest, most embarrassing sexual experiences of your life, and he’s going to be all dressed. And maybe his hair will be slicked back. And complete sentences will emerge from your mouth. You’ll have a teleprompter.”

He gets to the studio and goes over everything with the writers. One of the spots is a silly little game. The two options are _Truth or Dare_ or a sing-off. Harry chooses the sing-off. He’ll be professional. Oh, yes he will.

It doesn’t hurt that Louis is late to the studio, so Harry feels very superior and self-righteous. And there isn’t time for him to do a meet-and-greet before he has to be in hair and makeup, so he can avoid Louis until the last possible moment. Which will be in front of an audience, so hopefully he won’t snap and slither to the floor under the desk with that kind of pressure on him.

The major drawback to his plan reveals itself as soon as they do the customary look-and-say-hi through the green room door on camera. The door sweeps open, and Harry is so glad they aren’t doing split screen for this, because his smile freezes on his face. His entire face freezes. His body is now Ice Station Zebra.

Louis is wearing a pair of black skinny jeans that look soft and worn-in, there are Star Wars Vans on his feet, and he’s drowning in a sweatshirt covered in Rebel Alliance Phoenix symbols in the shape of Princess Leia’s silhouette. He looks cozy and soft, and his hair is mussed— _scruffy,_ Harry’s strangled brain spits out, _remember to call him scruffy—_ and he’s got a manic look in his ice-chip blue eyes as he waves at the camera.

They cut for a minute, and Harry has time to compose himself before they film Louis’s entrance. He needs it. The idea of Louis Tomlinson is nowhere near as devastating as the fact of Louis Tomlinson, and Harry hasn’t had time to build up an immunity.

He recovers pretty well by the time the curtains are pulled back, and the audience begins screaming for Louis. And Star Wars. It’s deafening.

“I think you got more applause than I did, mate,” Harry says, as they shake hands over the desk and Louis sits down. He figures his facial expressions are coming across normally—they _feel_ normal, like ones he wears every day. He can’t read Louis at all, and it’s unnerving. It shouldn’t be. They spent a few hours together six years ago, and about a third of that time was spent fucking around. It’s not enough time to establish encyclopedic knowledge of another person. At least his palms weren’t sweaty.

“Oh no, poor rock star! What do you think, everybody? Let’s give Harry a big round for being such a good host!” Louis stands up and leads everyone in a cheer for Harry, who can’t do anything but laugh. He must be bright red. He hardly cares, because Louis is looking at him. 

“They love you,” Louis assures him, as he sits back down. 

Harry tries to get a grip on the interview. There’s an accepted form to these things: host asks a stupid question, guest attempts to provide a thoughtful answer, host asks a stupid follow-up, guest gives up and jokes around. Harry’s been on the receiving end of enough of them to know the formula by heart. James does make the effort to put people at ease and ask questions that might be halfway interesting, because it really does make for a better interview, but all of that requires the guest being willing to play along.

Louis seems to appreciate it, but he resists it every time Harry asks a more personal question about his time on set, defaulting to telling stories about his more famous co-stars. Harry has to work to get stories out of him about being on set, and Louis brings up Carrie Fisher and how much he misses her all by himself—which is good, because there was no way Harry would bring that up. It’s a good interview, but Louis really doesn’t want to talk about himself, and Harry is getting desperate for it. It feels like Louis’s approval is just out of his reach, and that churns up memories of being between his legs, with something else just out of reach.

“So I hear you’re BB-8’s favorite,” Harry says, queuing up a now-iconic photo of the cast on the red carpet. BB-8 looks for all the world like they’re sitting protectively in front of Louis and glaring at Adam Driver.

“They’re so much fun.” Louis grins at the picture. It’s the most genuine happy expression Harry’s seen from him all night. Harry crosses his arms on the desk, leaning in without thinking about it. The softness around Louis’s eyes is familiar. Hearing Louis use a gender-neutral pronoun for the droid fills him with warmth. “And whatever the gossip rags tell you, Adam’s amazing. Working together is fantastic. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” He’s genuine when he says that, too, and Harry feels like velvet rubbed the wrong way. It’s jealousy, he realizes, to his mortification. He also realizes he’s been silent half a second too long.

“Well, we can’t all be dark lords with phenomenal cosmic power.” Harry’s brain apparently decided to cover the awkwardness over feeling jealous about Adam Driver by acting jealous about Adam Driver.

“I don’t know, I think you’d look good with a lightsabre in your hand,” Louis says. Then it’s time for a cut to commercial, and Harry leaps out of his chair to get an unnecessary touch up just so that he doesn’t have to make small talk with Louis. Louis, who gets up and ambles over to take some questions from the audience while the grips ready the set for their ridiculous little game. Harry joins him after getting his nose powdered. Louis doesn’t make eye contact as Harry stands next to him, paying all his attention to a young girl in the front row who’s stuttering through a question about Princess Leia.

“She’d tell you to never stop trying,” Louis says. He’s kind to small children. Harry is having an issue in the vicinity of where his ovaries would be if he had ovaries. Just a couple of small explosions. Nothing to worry about. He stops himself from staring at the nape of Louis’s neck and takes charge, calling on a young woman towards the back.

“Do you two know each other? You seem really comfortable working together,” she chirps, unaware that she’s wreaking further havoc on Harry’s insides. Louis laughs, and slings an arm around Harry’s shoulders. It feels like he’s been plugged in to an electric main, emotionally speaking. Louis wears different cologne now, but he stills smells the same underneath. He’s still warm. He’s still smaller, hanging off Harry’s shoulders like Harry’s support is the only thing keeping him upright, and Harry would, he _would_ , he would _love_ to. Louis can go out and get as sloppy drunk as he wants, Harry will hold him up and bring him home and give him acetaminophen tablets and make sure he has enough water and—

“Young Harold and I are consummate professionals—” he squeezes Harry’s shoulder none too gently, “—and comport ourselves accordingly.”

Harry appreciates the warning, but he’s really just freaking out now. His crush on Louis-that-was has slammed right into his crush on Louis-as-is, and what little cope he had going in to this taping has been pressurized into a diamond of insanity.

“We only have time for one more question, and then we’re going to play a little game,” Harry announces. “How do you all feel about us doing a few rounds of Truth Or Dare?”

The crowd goes wild. Louis stares at him, half assessing, half horrified. Something dark comes into view behind his eyes, and Harry wonders if he’s made a terrible mistake. The likelihood is high, he thinks distantly. 

They sit down across a card table from one another. The first few rounds are tame enough. Louis picks truth, Harry asks him which co-star of his would Louis most like to kiss. “Oscar Isaac, obviously.” Harry picks truth, Louis asks the same question. Harry names Mark Hamill, and Louis laughs, loud and shocked, like he wasn’t expecting that. The trouble only really begins when Louis picks dare for the first time. Harry dares him to sing a few bars of a One Direction song. Louis belts out some of “What Makes You Beautiful,” to the delight of the assembled, and fobs it off with something about having little sisters.

“Thought you used to dance around to this in your best friend’s dorm room,” Harry says, and immediately regrets it. That darkness snaps in Louis’s eyes. Harry hopes desperately that down the echoing corridors of time Louis mentioned something about that in an interview. He can always say they were talking about it backstage before the show, but too many people know that didn’t happen, and rumors last forever—

“In her skirt.” The words positively drip out of Louis’s mouth, and the audience gives an appreciative, communal shriek. Harry can’t think of anything to say.

So he chokes out “My turn,” and when Louis gives him the choice, Harry—like the fool he is—says _truth_.

“Have you ever taken a fan back to your tour bus, Harold Styles?”

Harry doesn’t know if he blanches, or goes red, or neither. Probably neither. He’s been asked far more invasive quesstions, but this one has an edge. He doesn’t think Louis is trying to out him, or trip him up. He thinks—through the split-second fog of his own panic—that he recognizes the same defiant insecurity that led a younger version of this man to give out to one of his handlers. Maybe Louis is trying to see if Harry will deny it altogether. What they were. What they did. The audience is making noise, and Harry has to say _something_. Outright denial would work best. But lies are too easy sometimes.

“Not sure they were a fan, actually,” he settles on. The audience yells. Louis smirks. Harry wants to live inside that smirk. “Truth or Dare,” Harry asks. Louis raises an eyebrow, pretends to consider it.

“Dare.”

“Kiss me.”

Now, Harry’s kissed James Corden a few times on camera. It’s always the result of a dare, always friendly, and no one ever really complains about it. The fact of a married, supposedly completely heterosexual man kissing a rock star who will not reveal his sexual orientation seems to completely fry the circuits of anyone who might mind.

But that’s different from a rock star who will not reveal his sexual orientation spontaneously daring an openly gay man to kiss him. Everyone knows it’s different. _Louis_ knows it’s different. Harry realizes how fucking exploitative the dare looks instantly, and he has to save it. He presents his hand with an arch flourish, hoping Louis will kiss his knuckles and that will be that.

Louis does take his hand. He takes Harry’s hand, draws him up out of his seat, and is fucking _dipping him_ before Harry can get more than a squeak in. Harry throws one arm around Louis’s neck for stability, other arm dangling limp at his side. He can feel the minute tremble in Louis’s arms, but it doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” he whispers, aware in a distant sort of way that they’re micced and the whole segment will probably have to be reshot.

Louis grins, all pointed little teeth, stormy eyes, and ginger in his stubble. “Tell you a secret, rock star?” he murmurs. Harry nods.

“Neither did I.” Louis kisses the tip of his nose, and then yanks him upright.

They do reshoot the game portion, and there is no kissing. Afterwards, Harry tries to find Louis to apologize for his unprofessional behavior, but Louis has already vanished.

History always repeats itself, Harry thinks. He does something stupid, and Louis walks away.

This time, he does get Louis’s number. He sends a text immediately, on his way back from the studio, returning home to marinate in his own shame.

Harry 8:30pm: Louis, it’s Harry Styles. I got your number from your assistant through James’s assistant. I’m so, so sorry for what happened in the truth or dare segment today. It was an egregious overstepping of your boundaries, and we hadn’t talked about it beforehand. Please accept my apologies 

The horrible three dots appear, disappear, appear again.

Louis 8:33pm: Don’t worry about it xx

Harry stares. That’s _it?_ he wants to ask.

Harry 8:35pm: Well, if you ever want to talk about it. Or anything else. This is my number.

  
Louis 8:37pm: No worries. Thx  
Louis 8:39pm: <3

There is nothing further. Harry stares at that heart for a long, long time.

Harry feared that James would give out to him for what happened, but apparently, Louis didn’t complain at all. Said he had a wonderful time. The kiss dare is kept in, too, right down to the nose kiss. It causes quite the stir. The sound tech does cut their mics, though. That makes Harry feel better, like they had a few seconds to themsleves. Like for one minute he could see the person he’d known. He still feels extremely guilty about all of it, about letting the game get away from him, about overstepping, about Louis not talking to him.

He’s leaving for England in two days, and spends as much of his time packing up as he can, getting the rest of his shopping in. He still manages to get some quality brooding in. It's helped along by how Louis is everywhere all at once, on everyone's talk shows, being charming and ebullient whether he's with his co-stars or alone.

Harry’s just settled in to his window seat in first class, when he hears a quiet laugh from above him. Rueful, almost. Harry looks up into Louis Tomlinson’s frankly unacceptably blue eyes, and feels something thud all through his body. In the adrenaline rush a few days ago, he never really got a chance to process what it did to him to see Louis in real life after all this time. He looks at his feet. Harry looks at him.

“Do you think we can talk?” Harry doesn’t mean to sound so quavery, but Louis hears it. Harry watches him swallow.

“About what?” That Louis is still trying to brazen this out should hurt, maybe. But Harry isn’t a scared eighteen-year-old any more. He waits Louis out. Finally Louis brushes a hand through his messy hair and rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe,” Louis says. “Might need to nap first, if I’m honest.”

The dark circles beneath Louis’s eyes are no longer covered by heavy makeup, and he seems about ready to fall over. Harry smothers the urge to rock Louis in his lap until he falls asleep, and gets up, sidling past him into the aisle. “Take the window seat. The view out of Manhattan is amazing. You know, before your nap.”

Louis blinks at him. Then he smiles. Just a little. But genuinely enough. “You’re something else, Harry Styles.”

Harry does not preen like an eighteen-year-old with the attention of the most attractive boy in the room on him. He’s a twenty-four-year-old, extremely accomplished pop star. He’s fine. When Louis brushes past him, he does not tremble. He takes his seat, apologizing to the businessmen who clearly have no idea who either of them are. 

“Remember the story you told me the night we met?”

Louis is staring blankly out the window, but he rouses when Harry speaks. “The—what?”

“You told me a story. About how I worked in a coffeeshop that you studied in.”

“I do.” Louis says fondly. And a little bit self-consciously. 

“I was just thinking—all these people walking by?” Harry shifts closer to Louis, so that he can speak low. Louis tenses up, and it makes something inside Harry twinge with regret, and shame. But he swallows it down and makes sure not to touch Louis at all. Louis nods, to get him talking again. “I was thinking about what they think of us. What’s the story they tell, and then forget, just as quickly. Maybe they think we’re the spoiled sons of Russian oil barons. Or on our way for a really fancy backpacking trip.”

Louis rubs his hand along his jaw. “Could be, could be. Or we’re two strangers. And you were in my seat, and I asked you to move. Not that politely, mind you. And you were so gracious and so apologetic about it, I felt awful about meself, and I have resolved to be very kind to you for the rest of the flight.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Harry can’t help the slow, shy smile. He wants to play it cool. But he can’t, somehow.

Louis covers his mouth as he yawns so widely Harry can count his fillings. “Sorry, sorry. I’m completely done for. I did the London premiere and then flew to LA for more promo, and now back again for Christmas. It’s a lot in a week.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m the one who should be apologizing.” Harry leans over and rummages in his bag, searching for his book. “I just never thought I’d see you again,” Harry says. Mostly to his carry-on. He can’t help himself.

Louis pauses in his own shifting around. The sounds of a plane getting ready for takeoff intrude. Suitcases, a fussy baby, murmurs of welcome and clinks of china in first class. Harry feels a warm hand on his shoulder, just briefly. “It’s okay, Harry,” Louis says. “It’s all okay.”

 The flight attendant comes around with hot towels and to take drink orders. Louis’s hand withdraws. They stay in their own little worlds for take-off. When Louis reclines his seat into a bed and kicks his shoes off, he curls up facing Harry, instead of away from him. Harry feels like he’s triumphed. Over what, he doesn’t know yet. But Louis should get his sleep. Louis deserves it. He deserves everything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get a chance to talk. There's smut. And Louis has some troubles from his past that plague him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say I was going to write more! Hopefully another chapter will be soon, hopefully you all enjoy. <3

When Louis opens his eyes, night has fallen in first class and nothing feels real. He expects to be cold, but there’s a mint green, fuzzy blanket tucked around him. It’s big enough to cover him properly and smells faintly of lavender, confusing until he sees the man next to him. Harry Styles is lit by a warm work light. His brow is furrowed as he types on a rose gold MacBook. There’s an overstuffed notebook open next to him on the workspace and a pen in his teeth. His hair is frizzed and pushed around in strange patterns, as if he’s been running his hands through it as he thinks. Louis stays very still, keeping his breath even and his eyes mostly closed. He wants to watch this driven, focused Harry as he clicks around between what looks like an email program and some kind of task management app.

A whole rainbow of colors smears together on the task list. Louis assumes each one is a different area of his life. Harry is just doing one thing after another, changing the color of each separate item to a muted blue. Louis is suddenly aware of just how much work goes into being Harry Styles. His own life isn’t that wild yet. It might never be. The last couple years might just be a dream. He wouldn’t mind if they were. He never expected to have a name people knew. Certainly no one else expected it of him.

Lying here in the darkness, Louis wonders if he’s in yet another alternate version of his life, one where he never said good-bye to Harry. Where they’ve been together all this time, and Louis can watch Harry as much as he wants.

He never intended to hold on so tightly to that night. He tried to forget, move on, but it was a shadow he couldn’t shake for a long time. Especially when One Direction kept breaking records, kept touring all over the world, when his sisters, one after another, developed a crush on the boy with the green eyes and the impossible smile. The idea of him, anyway. Louis had a taste, just a taste, of the real thing. And he was hooked.

Harry gets towards the end of his task list, a vibrating kind of energy coming off him as his typing gets faster, and he leans into his screen. Like he can taste freedom. It feels like that night, long ago, when he was pressing up against Louis in his tour bus bunk, fixing him in place with those big, beautiful eyes. He scrubs his hands over his face, sighing. Makes a few last notes to himself, sends another email, and closes all the windows. He checks his phone and then powers that down, too. He stretches, and Louis can’t help watching the muscles in his arms, the way his t-shirt pulls over a body that is no longer boyish. No longer what Louis remembers.

Then Harry looks at him with an intensity that makes Louis feel like all the solid ground has disappeared. He only belatedly remembers that they’re up in the air.

A cup of tea has appeared next to him while he slept. He has a feeling that’s Harry, too. He reaches out and sips at it. He wrinkles his nose—the tea went cold while he slept—but the fact of it warms him all over.

“Hi,” Louis says. “Get a lot done?”

Harry’s expression melts into fond satisfaction, and Louis wonders if he feels the otherworldness too. “Actually got everything squared away before the holidays, told my team to set their auto-replies and not think about work for three weeks. Feels so good.” He presses the call button, and almost instantly a flight attendant is there. “Mariah, I would you be so kind as to scare me up a gin and tonic?” She smiles at him, all indulgence over a flutter that Louis is pretty sure Harry could inspire in corpses.

“Of course. Anything for you, sir?”

Louis blinks, a little surprised to find he still exists in a way that other people can see. “Bloody Mary.”

“Coming right over. And…” she looks slightly embarrassed, lowering her voice. “Would you mind an autograph? My nephew is a huge fan.”

“Of me?” Louis isn’t proud of the way his voice squeaks.

“You’re his favorite and he hasn’t even seen the movie yet.”

“Absolutely. What’s his name?”

“Jory.”

“Got it.”

She walks off with the grace of a woman who spends most of her time in the sky.

He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, trying to shake off his sleep. A pen and slip of torn notebook paper slide over, and he looks up to find Harry’s dimple threatening him with some kind of heart implosion. He takes them gratefully, and writes out _To Jory— May the Force be with you_ , Rashi’s name in afra-besh, and his own swishy signature.

“What’s this?” Harry points at Rashi’s name.

“It’s my character’s name in the standard written alphabet of the Star Wars universe.”

“Way to commit.”

“I’d like to see the person who can get through being in a Star Wars movie without becoming a huge nerd. And I was one to begin with, so.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s really sweet.”

“Relax, Harold.” Louis shoots him a lopsided grin. “You’re okay.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep needing to hear it.”

Mariah comes back with their drinks, interrupting what might have quickly become A Moment, and Louis presents the autograph to her with a flourish. She thanks him profusely and slips it into her pocket with a conspiratorial smile, then vanishes to her own seat. Harry is watching him, and Louis takes a sip of his drink. “What?”

“You’re just… here. Alive. You know. Existing in space.”

“It’s been known to happen,” Louis says. “I didn’t just appear out of the ether that night.”

“It felt that way,” Harry admits, as if it’s costing him something. “I’m sorry I never called, or texted, or anything.”

Louis has to choke back a laugh. “I didn’t exactly think you would.” But that’s a bit of a lie. He did, at least for a few days. Or maybe it was just pure want crystallized into expectation.

Harry blinks, a little wounded. “It’s not—it wasn’t—I _wanted_ to, but…”

“Look, we really don’t have to talk about it.” Louis speaks louder than he means to, and quickly glances around to make sure no one’s heard them. The distance across the two side tables feels like the English Channel.

Harry has a bit of an obstinate expression on now. Louis likes it on him. Wonders if he used it on his management team when they tried to keep him from the one night stand _after_ Louis. “What if I _want_ to talk about it?”

“Do you always get what you want?”

The corners of Harry’s mouth pinch down, and Louis remembers their conversation in Harry’s bunk. The younger, less polished version of this man whispering _someday_ like it was the only word he knew. “Not quite,” he says, and there’s distance coming in behind his eyes. As if the real Harry, _Louis’s Harry_ , might retreat from him. Harry has limits, and even though Louis is so happy to know they exist, an even greater part of him is panicking at the very idea that those limits might be applied to _him_.

“Wait a second.” He stands up and clambers over Harry as best he can. He stumbles a little, and Harry’s hands come up to either side of his waist. He doesn’t touch, just ready to hold him if he needs it, and Louis swears Harry’s lips part. Louis enjoys having an effect on him, nearly shakes his hips a little, just for the fun of it, but he has a mission.

He really doesn’t want to talk about it. He puts his sweatshirt hoodie up for some extra privacy and slips through the curtain to economy class, heading for the toilets at the back of the plane. It isn’t a full flight by any means. The week right before Christmas people doing transatlantic travel for the holidays usually manage to be where they’re going to be already. Towards the back of the plane there’s a good few empty rows, and he nods to himself, decision made.

He doesn’t want to talk about it, but Harry does. Since Louis doesn’t really know _why_ he doesn’t want to talk about it, he figures he ought to.

Returning to their seats, he’s not at all surprised to find that Harry has pulled the mint blanket back round him and has it tugged up to his chin. Louis’s chest twinges at that. Harry gave him his own blanket. Harry should have been wrapped up in it to fly, but he tucked Louis up in it instead.

“Hey, pop star,” he murmurs. Harry’s head snaps up, and there are so many emotions piled up in those eyes. Louis couldn’t name half of them if he tried. “Come on.” He jerks his head towards economy. “I found us somewhere we can talk. Bring that” Harry looks confused, wary, but he gets up anyway. Follows Louis, blanket balled up to keep it off the floor.

Louis leads them to the empty rows near the back of the plane, picking the middle section. He offers Harry one of the seats with a flourish of his hand. “Your chariot, my lady.”

Harry wrinkles his nose like he’s trying not to laugh, and settles in, looking a little impressed. Louis sits down next to him and gestures to the blanket, pulling it over them both. With the main cabin lights off, they’re in a cocoon of darkness in the center four seats. Anyone still awake around them is watching movies with headphones on.

Louis reclines his seat, and Harry does likewise. It’s cramped and uncomfortable, but that’s somehow fitting. Harry puts the armrest between them up. They’ve never been quite this sort of close before. Maybe while they cuddled in the tour bus on the way to the hotel. But they knew it was good-bye, then. Louis isn’t sure what now is. The uncertainty leads to anxiety, and he doesn’t like it.

“This is brilliant,” Harry whispers, effectively distracting key decision-making centers of Louis’s brain from anything other than patting themselves on the back for impressing Harry. Which is a problem, because Louis was counting on those.

“Can’t have a conversation shouting over those side tables.” Louis doesn’t even want to _have_ a conversation. He wants to keep his memories of that night locked up where they can’t get to him. He wants to stay safe.

“I don’t think we’d be shouting, Louis.” Harry’s smiling, though.

“What do people on honeymoon do? Get strained necks from trying to stare into each other’s eyes, that’s what.”

“That would certainly make certain honeymoon-related festivities more difficult.”

“Why Harold, I don’t know what you mean.”

Harry makes a show of looking around before he leans even closer. “ _Sex_.” He draws the word out, all rough and tumble rock star. If Harry Styles at eighteen was a menace, Harry Styles at twenty-four should be banned for public health and safety reasons. Because he knows, now. He knows his power, his draw. His worth. A shiver runs through Louis. Harry doesn’t miss it, and his dimple pops.

“Don’t look so smug,” Louis grumbles, trying to keep an answering smile under wraps.

“Why not? Turnabout is fair play.”

“What are you turning about, exactly?”

Harry suddenly looks unsure. He worries his lower lip with his teeth, ducking his head and looking at Louis through his lashes. “I don’t… know what the rules are, here. Are we flirting? Are we not?”

“Are we?”

“Well, I mean. We have some history.”

“Do we? In the annals of Harry Styles’s sexual conquests, how much history could we have?” Louis regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but instead of drawing back, offended and hurt, Harry tilts his head and considers Louis. Considers the question. It’s a more effective rebuke than tears would have been. Louis waits for him to leave.

“I don’t really treat sex like it’s conquest. It’s more about enjoying something, you know? Sometimes I’ve felt like I’m a conquest for other people, and I don’t like that feeling. But I didn’t with you. Unless you’re about to break my heart after all this time.” There isn’t a hint of joking in Harry’s voice.

“ _Harry_.” Louis swallows. This is why he didn’t want to talk about it. Because he’ll get it wrong. He’s too quick to say the offhand, hurtful thing instead of digging down and talking about his feelings. “Never that. Sorry. Guess I… I don’t know. Feel a little jealous, I suppose. I’ve got no right, do I. And not for now-me, but for then-me. Because for all I knew you were pulling like that after every show, but it was the only time I’d ever—I’m making no sense.”

“No, you’re making enough.” Harry reaches out and takes Louis’s hand into both of his. He’s so sincere in the darkness. “Jealous is okay. Especially on behalf of younger you. He was really special. I know from experience.”

The wry self-awareness in Harry’s tone makes Louis want to tug him close and hiss like a outraged, venomous cat at anyone who has ever hurt him. He has to pull himself together. But Harry is talking again, quiet words falling out of his mouth in that deep voice, piling up between them like poker chips. “I did do a little more of that after we… after I met you. Trying to make lightning strike twice, I think.”

“Did it?” Louis hopes he doesn’t sound as strangled as he feels.

“That would be telling,” Harry says, and there are those walls again. Louis can’t blame him. “They’d really convinced me that any time I did something like that I was risking everything. So I started pushing it. Nothing went sour until it _really_ went sour, and I ended up in a PR relationship with Taylor Swift to make it all go away.”

“That’s some punishment for you.” Louis remembers those pictures. Harry, sweet and uncomfortable, smiling for the cameras while Taylor pulled him along in her wake.

Harry laughs softly. “It went… unexpectedly. ‘Gave her my heart but she wanted my soul,’” he half-croons. He tucks an errant lock of hair behind his ear. “But that’s another story.”

 _I want all your stories_ , Louis thinks. _Every one._

He doesn’t really like those thoughts. They lead dangerous places. Places he can’t afford to go.

“But look, it’s not like you ruined me,” Harry says, a little defensively. “I’ve had good sex.”

“I’ve had good sex too.” Louis does not want to be left out of this one. “Very good sex.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s eyes flash with something heavy. Louis can see it even through the darkness. Or maybe because of the darkness. “But it wasn’t… what we did was special. And you knew it at the time, and I didn’t as much. But I figured it out. And I did let people take advantage of me. In all kinds of ways. It never made that night bad to me, though. I never regretted it.”

The thought that maybe Harry never texted him because he was angry, or traumatized, or upset is a six-year-old knot in Louis’s chest that finally unties. “I never did either,” he says.

Harry brightens as if he’s relieved, too. “Not even when you learned I was going to interview you on national television?”

“That may have given me pause, I don’t mind telling you.”

“Afraid I was going to air our sordid past?”

“I’m a better interview than _that_ , Harold.”

“You were getting a little cagey, there. It could have been the only thing between us and catastrophe.”

Louis doesn’t quite know how to take that, and it must show on his face, because Harry squeezes his hand. “No, you were great. No one knew you were avoiding my questions except me.”

“I’m surprised you did notice.”

“I maybe watched every interview of yours that ever ended up on YouTube when James told me you were going to be on the show. I wanted to know…” He trails off, and Louis raises an eyebrow.

“Wanted to know when I was fobbing you off and when I was genuine?”

Harry has the good grace to flush. “Something like that. But really, why _were_ you avoiding the questions?”

Louis sighs. He tugs his hand away to pillow it under his chin. “I was nervous. Wanted to be funny. Make up for Daisy not being able to make it.”

“You don’t have to make up for anything, Louis. You’re a catch of an interview. Funny, quick, thoughtful. Were you—did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No.” Louis rubs his stubble. “Well, yes. But… It was more that I felt like I would say too much to you. I don’t want to wax poetic, or start crying because of Carrie, or any of that. Not with the cameras on. Keep it light, keep it moving, get people to the theaters. That’s been the word from on high. And then there’s _Harry Styles_ trying to draw me out of my shell, and I just didn’t want to risk what I’d give away if I let that go to my head.”

“Harry Styles does go to people’s heads, I’ve noticed.”

“We have some history, in case you’d forgotten, me and him do.”

“What kind of history?” Harry’s voice has gone a little breathless.

“Well, he dragged me back to his tour bus, once upon a time.”

And there it is. Out in the open. Louis making a fool of himself.

Harry beams at him. “See, that’s the kind of heartfelt content I was hoping for.”

Louis wants to cackle, but he’ll wake half the plane. “Almost got it with that kiss stunt.”

“I really am sorry about that,” Harry says. “I just didn’t think for a second. Honestly, if I saw that happen to you anywhere else I would have put that host on my blacklist immediately.”

“I believe you. But you’re already not the straightest ruler in the pencil case.” Louis hopes to get a smile out of him, but instead, Harry fingers the edge of his blanket, brow furrowed again.

“How hard has it been?”

Louis reaches out and pokes Harry’s index finger. “Determined to get your heartfelt interview after all?”

“Maybe. I’ve been following your career since _Into the Woods._ ”

Louis feels warm under Harry’s scrutiny. “Here,” he says. It’s a decision, but it isn’t a decision, not really. It feels inevitable, the way it felt when he saw Harry sitting in the seat next to his. Impossible to ignore, the way he’d been the night they met. “Give me some of that blanket.”

Harry throws half of it over, trying to maneuver in the small space. He catches his lower lip between his teeth again. Louis wants to scold him for it. Once Louis is covered to his satisfaction, they’re a little bit closer. Which also feels inevitable. Harry has one hand pillowing his cheek, the other lying between them, palm up, fingers curled over gently. Like he’s waiting. Louis doesn’t want to think about that too much. Being the sole focus of Harry’s attention is a little unnerving. He can’t tell what’s a memory from years ago, what’s just reminding him of being young and out of control, and what’s him _still_ being young and out of control.

“This is a really nice blanket,” he says.

“M’glad you like it.”

“Why don’t you just use the ones they give out? Would be easier than carting this around.”

“It smells like my detergent, helps me sleep easier. And it keeps random things I’ve touched from showing up on auction sites.”

“People seriously do that?”

“Someone once paid thousands of dollars for my vomit. Girls show up naked on my doorstep. I am very, very careful. Also, it’s just… not fair to let people take advantage of each other like that in my name.”

The scale of the craziness Harry has to deal with is staggering.

A few deep breaths, feeling the plane humming all around them, hurtling through the air on the edge of disaster at all times—he knows how it feels.

“Hard enough, I suppose. I know there are roles I haven’t gotten, haven’t even really been considered for. Spider-Man, for one thing. It’s all so pointless. Half of us are gay, and that’s not counting everyone who’s some other flavor of queer. But hiding it makes producers and directors more comfortable. And then there’s the constant underground economy of burying stories in the rags.”

“Did you ever think about hiding?”

“For a minute. My first agent sat me down and told me my ‘image’ was going to be a problem, and I told him we didn’t have a problem because he was no longer my agent.” Louis shrugs. “Set me back a bit, that one did. He was a big deal. Didn’t like me getting in his face.” Louis tries to shrug off how starry-eyed Harry looks. “It wasn’t brave of me,” he insists. “It was stupid. But… I thought about you, if I’m honest. Remembered how afraid you were of your team. I never wanted to feel like that. Never wanted them to have that kind of power.”

Harry gropes for Louis’s hand under the blanket, throat working as he swallows. “I’m really happy you didn’t let them bully you.” It comes out on a whisper. Louis squeezes back.

“I wish you never had to go through it at all.”

Harry shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “The minute the worst of the contracts were up, and I knew we were going on hiatus, I switched management teams. It was like a very boring spy movie. I had to do most of my own negotiating in back rooms at industry parties, in shadowy conferences on yachts, so my handlers wouldn’t get suspicious. At one point I passed a message through Ellen.”

“Ellen. Ellen DeGeneres?”

“The very same. I told you.” The pain in Harry’s eyes is fading as Louis shakes with silent laughter. Harry just looks pleased, now. “ _Mission Impossible: Rock Star._ ”

“But it worked.”

“It did. It did work.” A shudder of relief rolls through Harry’s body like it hasn’t gotten old in the last year and a half. “I still wake up tense sometimes. Like in my sleep I’ve forgotten things are better now.”

“Harry.” Louis runs his thumb along Harry’s knuckles.

“Honestly, you being so open about it helped me, too. When you were in _Into the Woods_ and I saw your interviews, how clear you were about the cost of the closet. It kept me going. Reminded me I wasn’t so alone.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of you when I decided to audition again,” Louis whispers. Something about the dark, the closeness. The flight tracking screens say _time at origin_ and _time at destination_ , but not what time it is on the airplane. Louis is suspended in the air, suspended in time, and Harry’s hand is all that’s grounding him. Except Harry is flying, too. And the light in his eyes seems to brighten again. They aren’t kids any more, but it feels like it. “You loved it, you know? Even with everything, you so clearly loved what you were doing. And I thought it might… it might be good to love something so much that the shit parts would be worth it.”

Harry turns their joined hands over so he can stroke the inside of Louis’s wrist with his thumb as Louis talks. Tells him about auditioning. About the constant rejections—“And I know my sexuality is part of it, they make it quite clear they’re worried about ‘marketing me appropriately.’” About landing the Star Wars part, feeling numb all over for days. “I stabbed myself in the leg with a fork when I got the call, I was so sure I was dreaming. Still have a bit of a scar.” He shakes his head. “It’s amazing working on those films. The love everyone has for it. You’ll be on location, having a day that’s just shit, and you still turn to whoever and go ‘We’re making a _Star Wars movie_ ,’ and that fixes it for a few minutes.”

“I heard stories about you getting up to trouble on set.”

“That’s mostly me and John trying to cheer Adam up. Daisy and Oscar join in sometimes. Adam’s got the worst role to play, you know, it’s hard for him. Spends all his time in the head of a traumatized mass murderer. Sometimes you find him crying in a corner. No reason. Just crying. So we cheer him up. Scare up a football, have a kick-around at the end of the day. Go out and do karaoke. Challenge him to push-up contests.”

“Wasn’t he a soldier?”

“I’m not saying we _win_. I bow out very early on. You know, out of politeness.”

Harry slides his hand up Louis’s arm and squeezes his bicep. “Very polite.”

“Oi, no manhandling the goods.” But Louis can’t help smiling. Harry stops treating his arm like a melon at the grocery store, but he seems to be a little distracted now. Louis catches his eye, and Harry licks his lips.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers. He doesn’t move his hand.

Louis swallows. His throat is dry. _Just because of the airplane_ , he thinks. _You’re not still panting over him_. Although all available evidence seems to indicate that Harry is still panting over _him_. Those key decision-making centers of his brain are at it again.

But he’s stronger than he used to be, so he steers the conversation back to other things. Harry’s hand ends up around his again as he talks about touring, about the hiatus, about writing his own music. When Harry’s eyes get heavy and his sentences trail off—although he’s trying to stay awake, trying not to waste a minute, Louis can see it and it goes straight to his heart—Louis suggests they go back to their seats. They’re both stiff and tangled from lying sideways in the economy seats.

It must be the exhaustion talking when Harry nods, looking near to heartbroken. He raises Louis’s hand to his mouth and presses dry lips to Louis’s knuckles. “Talking to you… I always regretted not talking more.”

“Don’t quite remember having time for that,” Louis says, but he’s smiling all the same. He can’t help it. And Harry’s eyes are hopeful stars shining through to him, and he can’t help that, either.

“And kissing you. I didn’t kiss you enough.” Even though Harry speaks slowly, the words tumble out of him. “I didn’t thank you.”

“You didn’t need to thank me. It wasn’t a favor.” Louis doesn’t seem to have enough air in his lungs. “But if you wanted to talk more. We could. You have my number now.”

Harry’s smile is slow. Everything about him is slow. The way he moves closer, tugging their joined hands into his chest. He smells like laundry and faded, subtle cologne, like worn-off deodorant that’s still doing its job, but not quite enough. Louis wishes he weren’t in a sweatshirt. He doesn’t want the thick fabric separating them, but maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe he needs armor against what Harry is doing to him.

“Is this okay?” Harry sounds so unsure, and Louis wants that to go away immediately. So he leans in and kisses Harry first. He means it to be sweet, gentle. But he didn’t reckon with Harry, who gasps into the contact like it’s his first breath of fresh air after being in a spaceship for years. Then he groans, low and quiet. It’s barely audible, but Louis feels it in his bones. Harry looks him over, then he’s pressing as close as he can, and Louis squeezes his fingers. Harry melts into him, nuzzling into Louis’s throat, searching out skin under the collar of his hoodie. “Missed you,” Harry murmurs. “Missed you so much.”

Louis freezes. It’s too much. Too much like no time has passed, when it _has_ , they’re _different_ now, Louis is different, and he can’t—

Harry’s noticed, of course he has, and he pulls back. The concern on his face makes Louis want to crawl under the seat.

“I just.” Louis swallows. “I just forgot. About something.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Left the iron on?”

“ _Something’s_ on,” Louis mutters, and Harry bites back a laugh, pleasure dancing in his eyes. Louis wants to cry. Because there’s something he hasn’t mentioned to Harry. Something he really ought to have led with, but it was too much. Seemed almost presumptuous. But it means that he’s not pulling Harry back as close the way he wants to.

“It’s all right,” Harry whispers, carefully. “We don’t have to… I got carried away. I thought you also—”

“No. No, yeah. I mean. This is. It’s incredible. I just—” Louis breathes. Really breathes. The panic welling up in him doesn’t belong to right now. It doesn’t belong anywhere near here. Or Harry. “It’s a lot for the back of an airplane.”

“We do have a track record with group transportation. Maybe we should have tried a train as an intermediate step,” Harry suggests. He doesn’t seem put off. Curious, definitely concerned, but not disgusted. That helps a little. “Could we cuddle for a bit, before we go back, then?”

Louis nods, and they stay there for a little while, Harry forming himself to Louis’s side. He doesn’t know why Harry needs him in particular, or maybe it’s just the contact he’s after. Although Louis can’t imagine Harry being hard up for willing partners. And those thoughts are so much like what he remembers from six years ago that it makes him want to laugh until he throws up.

Harry is taller than he was six years ago. He’s got a little more muscle shifting under his skin. But he curls into Louis like he did that night. He trails his fingers along Louis’s stomach, over the sweatshirt. His breath is warm on Louis’s throat. And when his hips shift, Louis can feel the beginnings of an erection grinding into his side. He glances at Harry, who’s gone a little flushed, but shrugs a shoulder.

“Doing my best to keep it from being a nuisance,” he says, sheepishly. “S’hard, though.”

“That’s a terrible play on words.”

“But you’re smiling. That’s what I was after. But we don’t… we don’t have to do anything. That’s not why I wanted to talk.”

“I know.” Harry’s hair is silky when Louis trails his fingers through it, thick and soft. “But you _do_ want something.”

“I would have to be dead not to,” Harry says, as if this is very important information.

“So you want a little more.” Louis isn’t sure why his own voice has betrayed him, coming out in a arch whisper when what he surely wants it to do is quell the suddenly _very_ attentive man in his arms.

“I do.” Harry licks his lips.

The corner of Louis’s mouth turns up of its own accord. He’s so fucked.

“Touch yourself.” Talking is fine. Talking Louis can do. Harry lets go of him and palms the growing bulge in his jeans. “Really feel yourself out. Haven’t seen it in a few years, have I? Need to get reacquainted.” He’s not speaking loud enough to be heard by anyone else, but it feels like every word is reverberating through his head. Harry cants his body away just slightly so that Louis can see as his fingers map his own crotch, stroking all over, pressing down with his palm at the base. Harry’s hands are so beautiful set against the black denim. Fingers thick and long. Trembling as Harry follows the line of Louis’s attention to his cock.

“Looks like it hurts, getting so hard like that in your jeans. Are you even wearing pants?”

Harry bites his lip and nods. Louis tsks. “Should have thought of that before you decided to get hot in the back of an airplane.”

“Could always go to the toilets,” Harry murmurs, jaw clenched like the very thought of it is exciting. “Join the Mile-High Club properly.”

“I’m not that kind of boy, Harold.” Louis enjoys the way Harry’s eyes darken at his haughtiness. “You can’t just _demand_ such things of me.”

“Would never,” Harry returns fire, leaning in to mouth at Louis’s neck. “Anything you want, D—”

Louis’s hand tightens on Harry’s shoulder without him meaning to. “Don’t.”

Harry blinks. His mouth opens, but the look on Louis’s face convinces him not to push. “Anything you want,” he repeats, but it’s more sincere this time. Warm. Reassuring. Louis just nods. He’s too mixed up to do anything else.

“If that’s how it is, I want to see it,” he gets out. “I want to see your dick all grown up.”

Harry hisses as he works his jeans down under the blanket, trying desperately not to make the seats squeak. He’s braced on his feet with his back arched, working his jeans open. Louis can’t see much because of the blanket, but that only makes it hotter, Harry doing what he wants without Louis being able to check on him. He sags back on his side when he’s got his pants down, and Louis gestures to the blanket. Harry’s mouth parts, and he lifts it. Hesitantly. Like he can’t believe what Louis wants him to do, and can’t believe how much it turns him on.

There’s no light back here. Louis can’t see more than a vague shape, a shadow among shadows. But even with that, he knows beyond a doubt that Harry’s truly grown into himself. He wants his hands on it. His mouth. His whole body. He jerks his chin at the blanket, and Harry lets it fall. He’s curled in on himself in the seat, enough room to move his hand without being seen.

“Do it. Do it now. Be quiet.”

Harry’s bitten lips press together and his eyes shut after one last anguished stare. Louis rests his hand on Harry’s wrist, feeling it move up and down, learning the rhythm of how Harry touches himself. He gets a little closer, so his mouth is right by Harry’s ear.

Every so often another passenger comes through on the way to the toilets and Louis tightens his hold on Harry’s wrist to still him. “We must look so sweet,” he breathes. “When they pass by, what do you think they see? Just a couple asleep together on the way home. So cute, we are.” He rubs his scruff against Harry’s cheek, and feels Harry’s hand stutter for his trouble. “You look so peaceful. A little sweaty, but it could be airplane sweat. You could be innocently napping the time away.” He feels Harry’s arm working a little harder. “Slow down. You’ve waited for this, don’t you want it to last?”

Harry nods, helpless and lost to whatever’s going on in his head. Louis kisses his temple. Harry groans, a tiny, cut off little sound. Louis shushes him. And that’s the way it goes. Harry stroking his cock, alternating between keeping his eyes slammed shut and staring up at Louis like he’s the only thing keeping the plane in the air. He’s drawing it out—and maybe another Louis would have called him on it, made him speed up—but right now all Louis wants is to absorb Harry’s pleasure in this, in _him_. It’s getting humid under the blanket, and Louis can see how far along Harry’s gone, just from his face. His beautiful, beautiful face. His lips are shining with spit now, slightly parted and a deep, bruised pink in the dark. Louis wants to kiss them. Harry would let him. Harry would let him do anything. Louis feels the rush of that knowing, and he dreads it, because he knows what will follow, hot on its heels.

 _Harry doesn’t know he shouldn’t trust you any more,_ a horrible, familiar voice in his head says. _He doesn’t know what you let them do to you. He doesn’t know where you’ve been._

“You like this, don’t you,” Louis murmurs, trying to drown it out. “Wanking in the dark, where anyone could see.” _He doesn’t know you don’t deserve this._ “Wanton thing.”

Louis feels the pressure building, the panic crawling up his throat. But a choked gasps distracts him, and he covers Harry’s hand with his, barely brushing the head of Harry’s cock with his fingertips. All Harry’s muscles draw up tight, and then his eyes snap open, finding Louis’s. His perfect mouth is an _O_ of satisfaction and release, and something else. Something sharper and brighter, something Louis is afraid to name. Louis finds it hard to breathe, watching the tendons in Harry’s throat stand out while he—perfectly, perfectly—doesn’t make a sound, because Louis told him not to.

Harry is so good. And Louis isn’t. Not any more. A lot can happen in six years.

But Harry has his forehead pressed against Louis’s shoulder, and Louis stays in the moment with him as best as he can. Eventually Harry pulls away, tucking himself in with far more difficulty than he took himself out. Louis winces sympathetically as Harry wipes his hand off on his underwear. Harry just shrugs, perfectly cheerful. “Worth it,” he whispers. “Had to spare the blanket.”

Louis nods, hungry for how delighted Harry seems to be by all this. He collects himself with much more difficulty. He didn’t come, but his erection is flagging all on its own. Harry’s slightly concerned look is met with a raised eyebrow. Louis doesn’t want to talk about it. He hardly knows what the _it_ is.

So they return to their seats, like two ghosts who’ve decided to haunt the same bit of mansion. Harry’s movements are languid, but there’s an edge every time he looks at Louis. Louis wants to shrink away from it. From what he might see.

Harry smiles at him reassuringly as they slide back into their seats. “Do you want to watch _Stranger Things_ with me?”

Louis is pulled out of his morass of self-loathing by Harry’s question. “Uh, sure. I mean, if you even want to…”

“Of course I want to.”

“I only mean, after all that—” Louis wants to apologize. He wants to scream. He wants to explain. But there’s nothing to explain, is there.

“If I misread anything back there, if I pushed—” Harry looks so concerned, suddenly, and Louis grabs for his hand.

“No! No. Harry. That was amazing. You’re amazing. I just…” He has to say _something_ , has to try. He takes a breath. “You know how I told you once not to let anyone make you feel bad about what you want in bed?”

Harry nods.

“Well. Someone made me feel bad about what I wanted in bed. And that’s all I can say about it right now.” He’s on the edge of panic as it is, the hand not holding Harry’s clenched into a fist in his lap.

And sweet, lovely Harry doesn’t push him. He does ring the call button and asks Mariah very politely for a few more hot towels and some water for both of them. “He’s not feeling so well,” he explains, patting the back of Louis’s hand. Louis wants to snort, but can’t exactly disagree. She walks a little faster on her way to the galley.

“I’d still…” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “I’d still like to talk more. If that’s something you’re interested in. We don’t have to keep doing anything like that. I just… always felt like we’d be good friends, if we could be.

Louis nods. Harry’s small smile feels like absolution. Or like hell. Louis can’t really decide. Mariah returns with tall glasses of water, hot towels, and—bless her—mugs of tea. He murmurs his thanks, rubbing his hands and his neck with the towel. Harry takes a suspiciously long time cleaning his fingers, and Louis can’t help a tiny grin. Harry’s is much broader. Then Harry fusses around, spreads the blanket over them as best he can with the side tables in the way, does some magic with their monitors that syncs their displays, and then Louis can focus on something else. It feels like Harry’s taking care of him. The shudder that sends through him is on the edge of pleasant.

“Wish we were still in economy,” Harry whispers. “This show scares me. Head on your shoulder would help.”

“Any time,” Louis says. He means it. He reaches over and takes Harry’s hand under the blanket. “In case you’re afraid,” he says. Harry kisses his knuckles again. There’s a lot he has to explain, but it’s not… it’s not for right now.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep again, halfway through the second episode of the first season. He doesn’t remember Harry watching him, chin in hand, for a long time before Harry gets both their chairs into beds, and finally settles in to sleep.


End file.
